


Witchers (don't) retire

by CamilleDuDemon



Series: I will run to you (when my journey is over) [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Corvo Bianco (The Witcher), Dark Thoughts, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eskel is so done, Established Relationship, Hurt Eskel (The Witcher), Hurt/Comfort, Intimate Connection, Learning how to share again, M/M, Middle aged Eskel and Geralt, Retirement, Useless Shirtless Sparring, a whole story based solely on subtext wow, mutual understanding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:15:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29357844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamilleDuDemon/pseuds/CamilleDuDemon
Summary: [Set after the events of the DLC "Blood and Wine"]What is a simple witcher supposed to do when the harshness and the heartbreak of the Path start feeling a little bit too much?A wounded and feverish Eskel seeks solace in Corvo Bianco, as he's in dire need of someone who could tend to the many wounds of his soul.He will find so much more instead.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Series: I will run to you (when my journey is over) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2156556
Comments: 4
Kudos: 47





	Witchers (don't) retire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YourFriendlyNeighborhoodEskel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YourFriendlyNeighborhoodEskel/gifts).



Eskel looks like death on legs the first time he sets foot in Corvo Bianco, way long after Geralt has acquired it from the Duchy of Toussaint, during the worst early summer storm within living memory.

He hasn't eaten in days, nor rested, he has just pushed Scorpion to its limits and exerted himself so much he's sporting a nasty exhaustion-induced fever, not to mention the deep slash cutting across his chest that he has conveniently forgotten to tend to after his latest a contract has gone spectacularly to shit.

Though many years have passed since the last time they has seen each other in a stinking tavern near the Lyrian border, Geralt doesn't ask useless questions, he only pulls Eskel into a tight embrace and smells the sickness and the exhaustion into the crook of his neck, rubbing comforting circles into the hardened flesh of his back until he stops whimpering and wheezing and his breath returns somewhat normal, or at least as close to normal as it can get with his chest mauled by vicious claws, the wound dressed so poorly blood has seeped through his shirt, soaking his leather gambeson and even his breeches. 

The dryer it gets, the harder it would be to wash it away.

It's a fleeting thought, something that Eskel discards immediately, burying his face into the soft mop of Geralt's slightly overgrown hair and allowing himself to breathe in his familiar, relaxing scent of firewood and horse and all the fancy things he has made a habit of pouring into his bath -- it's chamomile and rosemary, this time. Another totally unintentional broken whine escapes Eskel's lips as his nostrils flare discreetly against the marred skin of Geralt's throat, and he hears him whisper sweet, unintelligible nothings to his ear, so gentle, while he helps him slowly to the guest room upstairs, careful to support half of his weight as they take one step at a time.

Eskel doesn't know how he manages to make it to the soft bed upstairs, the fresh smell of the linens soothing his overworked senses, but he does, and suddenly he finds himself half naked, shivering, Geralt's skilled hands probing at his wound, assessing the damage.

He can rest, now, he can rest. He's not alone anymore, Geralt is here, Geralt is going to make everything better -- Geralt always does.

His heart leaps in his chest as soon as Geralt starts washing the wound thoroughly, the searing pain now reduced to a dull throb, his touch lingering a tad too long, too tenderly. 

Could be that, or could be the fever. Eskel would rather champion for the latter, but --  _ he knows better. _

He starts drifting in and out of consciousness, too tired to protest when Geralt starts stitching up the worse of the gash, leaving just a little opening to allow the mild infection to drain, and by the time Geralt's done with the suturing and the dressing he's already out cold, allowing his body its much needed rest for the first time in what it seems like an eternity.

He's not sure, but sometime during his long, long nap he feels the mattress dip under the weight of another body, warm against his shivering, shuddering torso, gentle hands combing back the hair sticking to his damp forehead, cooling his fever-hot brow with a wet cloth.

He barely recognizes Geralt's hands by the touch, since the fever has climbed high during his furious ride to Corvo Bianco.

Might as well be delirium. Or just a healer, for what it's worth.

Eskel deems it better not to speculate, not in his altered state. Yet he can't help but find the silent presence comforting, and his breath comes out easier at the thought.

***

It takes him three days to recover enough to be lucid again -- undoubtedly another sign of his impending senescence, along with the all too frequent speckles of silver scattered through his dark hair.

Geralt does his best to have him well-fed, with three abundant meals a day and pitchers of fresh water and sweet juices to help him restore his hydration back to healthy levels. It's almost embarrassing, to be honest, and Eskel feels like an incompetent rookie needing to be nursed back to health after his first year on the Path. 

It's on the fourth day that they talk, finally, though Eskel would rather slit his own throat with his silver dagger instead.

_ Yet. _

He owes Geralt an explanation, though partial, and when Geralt pops up upstairs with a tray of cured meats and thinly sliced cheeses, Eskel doesn't find the strength to rebuff him, not now that his  _ longing  _ is starting to physically hurt.

"Eskel. You're awake."

"Wolf."

Oh, how he has missed the way Geralt's familiar nickname rolls out of his tongue.

_ Wolf. _

When Geralt leaves the tray on the nightstand and takes a seat on the edge of the bed, Eskel's heart swells with the intensity of what he's feeling. Geralt's scent. Oh, how much he has missed this. His gentle warmth. His rough hands tucking a wayward strand of his hair behind his ear.

_ Geralt.  _

Feels like home, though it's not. Home is rotting and crumbling away deep into the mountains, nobody left to fix the many holes in the walls, to repair the leaking roofs, to oil the doors so they don't squeal so painfully whenever someone is less than careful while cracking them open.

But Geralt is, in some sense, home, so Eskel can allow himself to relax, to lean into his touch, to let his guard down, finally.

And to roam his gaze over Geralt's new and strange figure, slightly heavier than it was before, slightly more mature though, he suspects, his aging process has been slowed further down by the second round of mutations he has received when he was still a kid. The wrinkles on his perfectly chiseled, fine face are the same ones he remembers so fondly. So are the scars, some almost faded completely, some still pink and deep, creating grooves and furrows in his pale skin.

"What happened?"

He's still so openly and painfully direct, naive almost, even if he's long past the century. Like Eskel himself, after all.

He's still Geralt,  _ his Geralt _ , and suddenly the heavy burden Eskel was carrying doesn't feel so heavy anymore, as if the decade or so that has passed between their last encounter and this very moment has never existed at all.

He sighs, heavily, as befits the old man he is now, yet he looks for Geralt's reassuring touch like a pup. It reminds him of the good old days before the Trials, when they leaned on each other at night falling asleep in a tight embrace, the blankets always too tattered and thin to keep the piercing kaedweni cold at bay. Geralt doesn't deny him the small comfort, knowing exactly the same kind of touch starvation, having been himself on the Path for so long before settling down in Corvo Bianco.

The easy silence they fall into stretches out for a while, and the only muffled sounds in the room are those of their breaths, of Geralt's fingers carding through Eskel's hair, untying the many knots and brushing away days worth of road grime and dried mud.

He needs a bath. 

_ He most definitely needs a bath. _

Another long, weary sigh.

"One too many things, Wolf. One too many things."

Geralt gives him a sort of sympathetic, almost apologetic sad smile that seems to say  _ been there, done that, Eskel  _ \- because it’s true, he’s been there, he has done that, even if he hasn’t been in the trade for a while he’s still a witcher, he’s been a witcher all his life, so-

_ He’s been there, he has done that. _

Eskel can’t help but notice how the new, minuscule crumples in the corners of his eyes suit him.

“Let’s start with one. We’ve got time to catch up.”

And Eskel tells him something. Just something, of course, because a decade or so is a very long time and the life of a witcher - no matter how simple that witcher can be - is always so full of horrors and pain and suffering it would take up an entire lifetime to list them all.

He starts with the little girl in Metinna, the one he hasn’t been able to save from a rabid shaelmaar that had run away from an itinerant cabinet of curiosities and had ravaged three villages during his flee before Eskel could finally take it down for good. Then he talks about the family that has perished under the unforgiving talons of a griffin because he had been a tad too slow, a tad too... _ distracted.  _ The hunting party he wasn’t able to protect from the swarm of wraiths in the elven ruins far into the mountains, up north. The young Nilfgaardian deserter mauled by foglets while he was looking for him in the swamps on behalf of his betrothed.

A list of failures. A list of lives he could have saved, but he didn’t. Years and years of guilt and self-loathing and-

_ Geralt.  _ With his warm hands on his face, dropping their foreheads together, breathing him in.

“Does it happen to every witcher, Wolf?” he hears himself asking, his voice merely a whisper. “Does grief and guilt keep building up like this, until the burden becomes too heavy to be carried any further?”

Geralt bumps his nose into his; they used to do that a lot when they were younger. Eskel hears a broken whimper, but he’s not sure whether it comes from his chest or Geralt’s.

“It does, Eskel. But -- you can live with that. You can, if you want to. You can -- grow out of it.”

“Is that why you’re here making wine instead of out there, slaying monsters for a miserable pay?”

Geralt chuckles lightly and their mouths brush just so. Eskel holds his breath, tasting wine on his tongue as soon as he dares wetting his lips.

“Yeah, sort of. And winemaking pays better, you know. Besides, no one will ever get eaten alive by a wyvern or sucked dry by a vampire for my incompetence. The worst that can happen is that my wine is shit...and it happened, at the beginning, with some lots.”

"Really."

"Yeah. I didn't know shit about winemaking, when I first started production. And I'm still a stubborn prick, you know, I never listened to anyone’s suggestions."

Now it's Eskel's turn to chuckle. Yeah, that would definitely be Geralt. A stubborn prick who never listens. While some things have changed irremediably, some others will never, and the realization is somewhat grounding to Eskel, somewhat -- it makes him feel safe. 

_ Makes him feel home. _

"I'm tired, Wolf."

And, shit, how tired he is. Not physically, of course, his body - though injured - itches with the raw, unused energy coursing through his veins with every kick of his strong, slow heart. But he is tired. His old soul is. His restless mind bursting with gloomy thoughts and guilt and hurt is. Sleeping is the best option. At least Corvo Bianco is safe enough to allow him to get some  _ real  _ sleep, instead of meditating on the side of the road with one eye half open for, like, two hours per night. Could have been a sustainable lifestyle when he was younger, albeit not ideal, but now that more than a full century weighs his shoulders down it is, so to say, unbearable over the long run.

Geralt nods. This same exhaustion raging deep in one's bones, he's well acquainted with that. 

_ A witcher is a witcher is a witcher -- and shit goes like this. _

"Eat something before resting, please. You're definitely too thin," he points out, his hand traveling down to trace the outline of his hollow stomach under the stained shirt.

Eskel grunts in acknowledgement and he starts picking at the tray as soon as Geralt hands it to him, keeping a thin slice of mild smelling cheese for himself.

There's the ghost of a faint headache pounding behind his eyes, but Eskel eats nonetheless, because Geralt has asked him to and he doesn't want to start sounding like an ungrateful asshole only after, what, a couple of days? He'd even fish a trout with his bare teeth from the pond if Geralt asked him to. Not to mention that the food is delicious, and he hasn't eaten much besides wild berries and raw meat in weeks. So he eats, in silence, occasionally sighing or exchanging meaningful looks with Geralt, and when Geralt picks up the empty tray to bring it back downstairs and leaves with a small, warm smile, Eskel's heart skips a beat.

He has definitely missed him more than he thought.

***

As soon as he feels better and he's recovered his mobility almost in full, Eskel is anxious to be of use, any use.

Labor is good for him, hard labor keeps the bad thoughts away and it leaves him spent so delightfully he can even sleep without experiencing night terrors or sudden awakenings throughout the night. 

He helps the young kitchen maid - Geralt has told him that his old one, a woman he was apparently very fond of, has recently died - with her daily chores, peeling potatoes and scrubbing pots clean, and he even works alongside the peasants down in the vineyard and in the considerably large orchard Geralt has set behind the main property. The garden is on the front, well stocked with herbs and flowers useful for brewing potions, though Eskel suspects that Geralt doesn't need much of that nowadays. They haven't discussed it yet, but -- well. Seems like he's enjoying his retirement while it lasts, and Eskel is more than happy to know that he's safe, now, out of harm's way after a lifetime spent trying to survive the very monsters they're both meant to hunt down and kill for coin. 

Still, he has smoothed down a small portion of the gravelly courtyard to serve as a training ground, because old habits die hard and, as the saying goes, a witcher is a witcher is a witcher.. _.and shit like that. _

One sunny morning, after having taken care of the few beehives Geralt keeps for reasons that Eskel doesn't quite grasp, he probes the terrain there with the tip of his boot. It's solid and well kept, perfect for sparring or trying out a couple of hooks and uppercuts to blow off some steam. He smiles when he smells Geralt trying to sneak up on him, the scent of summer heat and fresh sweat tingling pleasantly into his nostrils, sending shivers of pure pleasure down his spine.

He may be old, but he's far from getting past the feelings he has always harbored for Geralt _. _

They have acted out of those feelings many times over the years, sharing their firsts since they weren't able to grow a full beard yet, but he's afraid that time of merry fucking and toothy kisses, love bites and bruises is past and gone.

He can live with that.

After all, it has been him who deserted Geralt's company for years, so he's in no position to argue whatsoever.

Yet, he can't help but toy with the idea of spinning on his heels and kissing Geralt's mouth ravenously, as famished as he is, right away. 

He doesn't act his little fantasy out, of course, but his lips curl into the softest smile as his ears pick up Geralt's nearly silent footfall on the dry gravel.

"Wolf," he grins, "still trying to sneak up on me even though you've abundantly been proven that it is impossible to catch me unaware?"

Geralt chuckles lightly.

"Didn't hurt to try out your senses, Eskel. You're as old as me, after all. Might have gone a little less sharp over the years, uh?"

"Oh, fuck off," he says as he finally turns to face him. He wasn't definitely ready to find him shirtless and sweaty, and he can't help it when his breath gets caught in his throat abruptly at the unexpected sight. He regains his composure fairly quickly, though, if only to hide his little  _ defaillance  _ from Geralt’s amiable gaze. “I was still working full time only a month ago, Wolf. I’ve taken down a very ancient and powerful leshen on my way, you know? Near the old Ortagor fortress, or what’s left of it anyway. You, by the way, have you perhaps lost your edge? Heard the White Wolf has long been out of the trade…”

He smirks, and Geralt smirks back, rubbing at his stubbly cheek with his calloused, dirty hand, fresh soil caked under his fingernails. Eskel thinks, not without a pang, that a respectable trade leaves your nails stained with rich brown soil, not crimson, stinking blood. The thought is fleeting, but it casts a dark shadow over his scarred features. If Geralt notices it, he’s too discreet to point it out, much to Eskel’s mute gratitude.

“Ah, bullshit. I still take contracts, when I feel like it. I -- we can’t escape what we are, in the end, don’t we? I deal with vineyard infestations, mostly, nowadays, but I bet I can still kick your seasoned witcher ass anytime if I wanted to.”

Geralt’s legendary brash smile is still astonishingly beautiful. Eskel snorts, a deep sound coming from his throat, and he casts Geralt a very eloquent look.

“Yeah, yeah, you wish,” he affectionately mocks, waving his hand in the sultry air. One wayward bee, bothered by the recoil caused by the waving, buzzes away almost indignantly, carrying a cloud of fragrant pollen along.

“Wanna try me?” Geralt offers offhandedly, his smile outshining the summer sun beating down on the fields, so cocky and boyish and so terribly Geralt’s that Eskel feels a little unsteady on his own two feet.

He considers taking the offer down, at first. Fencing is a dance that carries something almost erotic with it, something wanton and obscene that reminds Eskel of the lewd frescoes painted all over the walls in some brothels and bathouses of dubious reputation in the heart of the South and makes old, never fully faded needs stir in his lower belly. He calls himself a coward many times before bowing his head in the face of destiny and agreeing, telling himself he’s playing along only for the sake of the good old days -- which is a blatant lie, of course, but he refuses to acknowledge that for the moment.

“Got some spare swords in that odd collection of yours?”

“Course I do, who do you take me for? Come, choose one of your liking.”

Several minutes later, they’re back at the small training ground, Eskel with a well-balanced exotic steel saber and Geralt with a wonderfully crafted vicovarian blade he has retrieved somewhere many, many years ago. The edge is still sharp, though, and the steel sings beautifully while clashing against the curved tip of his saber. He doesn’t spare on the attacks, getting in with the brute force and the dissonant grace of their common fighting style, forcing Geralt to retreat and dodge and parry as he slashes and grins, salty beads of sweat running down his nape and forehead, his thin shirt already starting to stick to his back. Though Geralt is clearly slowed down, the fight goes on for the most part of the morning, stretching well into the afternoon until Eskel is finally able to get the drop on Geralt, cornering him with the blade to his throat.

“Do you yield, Wolf?”

Geralt wets his lower lip and spits to the ground, the sound of his quickened heartbeat and his scent of overworked and fresh sweat almost intoxicating Eskel to the point of losing it.

“Only if you grant me a rematch. Tomorrow morning, after breakfast. The vineyard workers can do their job splendidly even without you, and the orchard won’t rot away if I neglect it for just one morning.”

Eskel nods.

“Fine by me.”

The smirk Geralt flashes him afterwards makes Eskel’s sore knees go mushy and his heart throws a set of wild, erratic kicks to his sternum.

***

Eskel has never been shy. Not even once. At least not around Geralt, by the way. Yet, when the White Wolf steps on the muddy bank of the pond with every intention of getting rid of his smallclothes and join him in the impromptu bath, Eskel feels a weird surge of modesty and he respectfully turns away.

Geralt must find his newfound respect for privacy amusing, because he chuckles under his breath and Eskel literally hears him shaking his head in mild disbelief.

Still.

He steps in, making his way through the ice-cold waters coming from the mountain glaciers up north, his breath itching and stumbling as his body adjusts to the massive change in temperature.

“You can turn now, I’m decent,” he cackles, as soon as he’s waist deep into the pond. Eskel scoffs, but he turns anyway. “Brought soap. How were you supposed to have a bath without soap?”

“My, you’ve become  _ sophisticated,  _ Wolf. Tell me, do you powder your pretty locks too? As far as I know, the Toussantian gentry and the aristocrats are still into powdering their hair…”

Geralt casts him a look that speaks volumes.

“I was forced, once. If you try to laugh, I’m so going to drown you.”

Eskel shakes his head, raising his hands defensively.

“Me? Laughing? I would never.”

“Liar.”

They chuckle in synch as Geralt sprays him with cold water and talks about that  _ “absolutely fucking boring banquet hosted by Madame de la Tour herself”  _ and Eskel doesn’t try to ask who the actual fuck this Madame de la Tour is, or why should he care about her, he just wants Geralt to talk and talk, until he’s finally stuffed with the sound of his voice -- a gravelly bass, it’s true, but Eskel loves its raspiness nonetheless.   
As they wash away the filth of their fight, he lets himself linger - though he really shouldn’t - watching Geralt from behind his eyelashes as he pretends to enjoy scrubbing his scalp clean with an olive oil scented soap bar.

Geralt is still Geralt, every dimple and scar and rough angle in place, even if his belly and hips have gone somewhat softer and fuller, a healthy layer of fat covering the still rippling muscles beneath. He’s got nothing of the mangy dog that used to come back to Kaer Morhen when the mountain passes were almost blocked by the snowstorms, but Eskel can dig this new, more mature and domestic version of him as well.

He ends up smiling like the old sentimental fool he is, and when he realizes that also Geralt is gazing down at him, the feeling of being a silly prick intensifies.

“Like what you see, Eskel? I most definitely do.”

***

Eskel doesn’t object when Geralt tells him to leave the guest room and go sleep with him.

They don’t discuss the matter much, actually, Geralt only says “I don’t see why you must take up the spare room now that you’re healed” and, well, there’s no point in arguing with logic.

Relief washes over him as soon as Geralt wraps his arms around him despite the summer warmth still oozing from the walls, scorched by the relentless sun that beats down on the main house all day long. Whatever kind of embarrassment he has felt while stripping down to his knickers and taking up as little space as he could on the goosedown mattress, it instantly dissolves the same moment Geralt plops down next to him, pressing his forehead into his, and he whispers a faint “Missed you, Eskel” that burns a hole through Eskel’s chest.

No night terrors plague his sleep as he buries his face into the crook of Geralt’s neck, listening to the soft snores coming from his nose and the pleasant, satisfied rumbling of his full stomach. A full stomach is a blessing to a witcher, no matter how many years said witcher has spent making wine and tending to his garden in a country mansion.

They fall into a steady routine after that first night, sharing almost as much as they used to when they wintered together in Kaer Morhen.

Geralt never asks when Eskel intends on taking up his leave, and that’s absolutely for the better because Eskel isn’t sure he wants to leave at all.

Working in the vineyard is relaxing, it soothes his wounded spirit and keeps all of his failures and griefs and losses at bay. And, besides, Geralt is planning on planting olives and Eskel is sure he’s going to need a hand with such a tough job.

Soon enough, even the staff starts treating him more like a regular of the house instead of a guest and, while it flatters Eskel to be called  _ “sir”  _ or  _ “monsieur” _ by the peasants, it also terrifies him beyond measure.

Witchers aren’t meant to be sociable, domestic people, nor he has ever heard of a witcher owning an entire fucking house and a vineyard to his name. But what if it’s all bullshit, though? What if the itch he feels whenever he thinks about the absolute thrill of a good hunt is just something that he has become accustomed to by his upbringing and not some inherent trait the mutations have forced into his very nature?

_ Still. _

Time goes on, as time does. Geralt dares to kiss him after one particularly heated sparring session, right before the midsummer celebrations, and Eskel is quick to respond, hungry and sloppy and so desperately needy he even feels a hint of shame at how wild he’s running as he ruthlessly lunges at his mouth, pecking at his lower lip with just the slightest hint of fangs enough to break the skin and draw blood. Its coppery smell and acrid taste is so intoxicating it almost hurts him physically. It doesn’t take long for things to become  _ pretty intense _ , and Eskel finds himself fucking Geralt in a goddamn haystack in the middle of a quite busy day, with peasants buzzing all around while preparations for the midsummer festival are in full spring.

Again, they don’t discuss the terms of their... _ agreement,  _ but more and more people start calling Eskel “sir” and “monsieur” and to take their funny hats off to him when he crosses them on the streets around the vineyard and the neighboring village, especially after having showed off a bit during the midsummer festival, becoming the local champion at pig gathering, axe-throwing, arm-wrestling and underwater scavenger hunting, much to the dismay of the many masculine peasants wanting to show their prowess to their belles.

He gets a taste of his first candied apple, so overflowing with syrup it oozes all over his shirt, making a mess out of his sun-kissed skin and even smearing over his medallion, undermining its perfect, polished shine. Geralt gets half of the apple; Eskel doesn’t like the way its taste lingers on his tongue, sickly sweet and too persistent.

Late at night, when the festival has moved down to the village and Corvo Bianco is finally quiet and peaceful again, Geralt puts out the large bonfire they have set up in the courtyard with a controlled and precise Aard and he gestures Eskel to go and lie beside him in the garden, in a little patch of green grass in which they barely fit without the risk of crushing down some flower or herb. Their shoulders brush and bump as they set to a more comfortable position, Geralt’s gaze already lost in the myriad of stars and constellations visible from the countryside. Geralt has always loved the stars whirling by over their heads while Eskel, despite him being the studious and diligent one, has never had a taste for stargazing, deeming the celestial bodies above quite boring, for that matter.

However, he too lets his gaze roam through the dark sky, tracing imaginary lines and patterns from a tiny white dot to the other, his steady breath catching the scent of the dying embers near and the still raging bonfires that have been lit in the villages scattered around Corvo Bianco, the faint whiff of chamomile and oil coming from Geralt’s freshly washed hair, the crisp fragrance of his exposed skin, his shirt undone to his sternum, his medallion clearly visible, the wolf’s head gently throbbing with each heartbeat.

He smiles, but it’s short-lived; it fades just as quickly the moment Geralt starts speaking, his face turned to gaze at the stars so Eskel can’t see it except for guessing its outline through the corner of his eyes.

“There’s a couple of things we must discuss.”

Eskel’s heart starts thumping unsteadily at his words, but he does his best not to show anything, putting up a straight face even though a slight wince disrupts the tight line in which he purses his ruined lips. He waits, then, patiently expecting to be kicked out unceremoniously, or gently coaxed into packing up his things and leave.

_ It would only be fair, after all.  _ This is Geralt’s home, not his own. He doesn’t really belong to the quiet, serene world of Corvo Bianco, he is only -- a guest. Someone that’s borrowing time, that’s it.

Still, he doesn’t think he’s ready to leave, not now that he has experienced what it means to  _ build something up  _ with his hands instead of just relying on killing and carnage to survive. How can he face the hardness of the Path again, now? How can he cope with the constant reek of death and blood and despair steadily flaring up in his nostrils now that he’s grown fond of the good, wholesome smell of grapes and freshly baked bread that permeates the air?

Suddenly, Geralt’s voice rips him out of his gloomy musing, as warm and pleasant as the breeze coming from the humid banks of the Sansretour.

“You all right, Eskel?”

“S’ppose so, yes,” he lies, nodding his head to sound even more convincing.

Geralt isn’t easily fooled, though, and he’s quick to grab Eskel’s hand and entwine their fingers, gently stroking the veiny, marred back with his thumb.

“I...don’t worry, all right? I’m not...I’m not asking you to leave, Eskel.”

“Oh, really.”

“Yes, really. Quite...quite the opposite, in fact.”

Eskel frowns, propping himself up on his elbow so he can face Geralt instead of gazing at the rhythmic throbbing of the stars glued to the cloudless sky. Geralt sighs, turning his head just slightly, and their noses brush tenderly.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I’d like you to stay, Eskel” One short beat. They’re both holding their breath, now. “Permanently,” he adds, a lopsided smile plastered on his lips.

And yeah, if it isn’t utter, pure, untamed happiness the feeling that pools into Eskel’s chest. He places a chaste, almost childish kiss in the corner of Geralt’s mouth before answering a faint “I’d very much like to stay, thanks”.

The grin that Geralt flashes him afterwards tastes like atonement and, partially, it repays Eskel of every single trouble, injury, wound and grief he has sustained during the long years out on the Path.

“Good,” Geralt mouths before pulling him into a much less chaste kiss.

Eskel couldn’t ask for anything better.

He couldn’t ask for anything more.

What else could he wish for, when Geralt is by his side and, hopefully, not leaving anytime soon?

**Author's Note:**

> Listen. I'm just a sappy old soul who wants to see Eskel happy, right? And what a better happy ending would it be for him if he got to enjoy his old age with Geralt, making wine and attending banquets and occasionally hunting together? So, here you are.  
> Because our man Eskel deserves better, and we all know it.  
> WE ALL DO.


End file.
